


For the Nights We Can’t Overcome to be Defeated

by resha04



Category: Brave Story - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Multiple Timelines, Nightmares, Not Beta Read, Past Character Death, Suicide Attempt, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22889614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resha04/pseuds/resha04
Summary: [“Why do you care?”Mitani fumbles. “Um—“Mitsuru turns his head to face him. “Why do you care why I went there?”“Because…” Mitani’s gaze dips, his thumbs twisting with each other against the can. “Because…”“You answer that, and I’ll answer you.” Mitsuru is not so much offering as forcing him into the bargain, ruthlessly.Mitani’s face falls. If Mitsuru were as he was back then, before the bloodbath and Aya’s body a lump under the white sheet, he would feel sorry for him. But right now he wants to know why; why Mitani is so interested in him, why he seems to be able to predict everything, why he cares about him in the first place, why he looked at him with anticipation, with bated breath and rippling eyes, as if he was afraid of what Mitsuru’s answer would be; so he doesn’t feel even the slightest pang of sympathy.]Mitani Wataru seems to know everything, about him, about what he's going to do, and Mitsuru wants to know why, wants to know how.
Relationships: Ashikawa Mitsuru & Mitani Wataru
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	For the Nights We Can’t Overcome to be Defeated

> _I'm truly happy to have met you,_
> 
> _But everything seemed full of sadness like usual_
> 
> _Now the painfully happy memories_
> 
> _Stroll as they rear the farewells that will someday come_

“Mitsuru!!”

Mitsuru blinks. Turns around. Narrows his eyes through the assaulting wind.

There’s a kid slumping against the door, windswept and out of breath, his wide, desperate eyes and pale stricken face minced by the wire fence.

“Don’t—“ he gasps, chokes, staggers forward, one hand outstretched. “Don’t do it. Please don’t.”

Irritation rises in him, bubbling to the brim of his set, tense mind; irritation because this kid speaks to him like he understands, like he cares, like it matters to him whether or not Mitsuru takes a step forward and surrenders to the gravity. Mitsuru doesn’t even _know_ him.

“Please,” the kid begs, strangled by a sob, halting before he gets too close, his hand still grasping empty air. “I— Please don’t. Please– Please don’t leave your aunt like that. Please don’t— It won’t change anything. It won’t— it won’t bring your sister back.”

Mitsuru whips around so fast he loses his balance briefly, half-stumbling against the wind and empty sky and the 50 meters to the ground. For a moment his heart lurches, but he manages to grab the wire fence and steady himself.

“Why do you know about that?” he snarls, fingers digging into the steel wire. “How do you know about my sister?” _About me?_

The kid raises his hands, in surrender or in placation, or both. “I, um, I… I read it in the newspaper.” His eyes dart to Mitsuru’s feet, to where only his toes are planted on concrete, and the remaining colors drain from his face.

“Why would you read last year’s newspaper?” The wind is getting stronger and his hair is whipping his face and his hand is starting to prickle with pain _(he only needs to let go)_ but Mitsuru doesn’t care he holds on steadfastly and demands, “Were you looking into me?”

The flicker of hesitation is all the answer he needs. “Why were you investigating me? And why are you here?” _How did you know?_

“I’ll explain everything, I promise.” The kid takes a step forward. His hands are still up, his steps tentative. “Just… please get over here. Please.”

Mitsuru narrows his eyes at him. Everything about the kid is jittery and fearful and sincere, he doesn’t seem like the type who could lie. And Mitsuru _is_ curious, and not a little angry. He feels wronged, for a reason he can’t comprehend. He feels like _this kid_ has wronged him, many times, even though this is the first time they met.

He pulls himself in and starts climbing the fence.

Behind him, the wind is moaning, clawing on his fluttering shirt, calling him.

* * *

“Mi— Ashikawa,”

Mitsuru’s hand stills from stuffing textbooks into his bag. He exhales quietly and starts counting in his head for patience.

“What?”

“We’re having a soccer game.” Mitani fidgets with his hands. “Do you… do you want to come? You can come and join us, we’re still short one player.”

“No.” Mitsuru flings the flap of his bag close.

“Oh, okay.” Mitani deflates, but he doesn’t press, doesn’t insist. He’s been coming to Mitsuru’s class this past week, at lunch time and after school, inviting him to eat with him and his friends or joining their games, even though it’s clear that his friends balk at the idea.

Always, Mitsuru refuses, short and flat and hard. And always, Mitani seems downtrodden, genuinely so. But he never forces him. He would nod and accept defeat, but he would come again the next day, and the next, as if the refusal never happened, as if he isn’t aware of the stare and giggles Mitsuru’s classmates level at him.

Mitsuru stands up and slings the bag’s strap through his head. “Is there anything else?”

Mitani jolts. “Huh? Oh, um, no.” He backs away to let Mitsuru through. “See you tomorrow, Ashikawa.”

Mitsuru brushes past the three boys attaching themselves to the door and walks down the corridor.

Mitani always says that, _See you tomorrow_. Even when Mitsuru never answered, even when he acts like he doesn’t hear it. Mitani always says it with hope, when the words are supposed to be only basic courtesy. He always says it almost like a prayer, and Mitsuru hates him for it. Hates him because it comes true, hates him because he looks at and treats him like he’s fragile _(maybe he is)_ like if he doesn’t say it Mitsuru will not turn up at school tomorrow _(maybe he won’t)_ , hates him because he knows.

(About his family about his little sister about his almost-leap about—)

He descends the stairs to the sound of one of the boys’ chiding, “Waaataaaru, I _told_ ya he won’t—“

* * *

His chest hurts.

They are laughing and he can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t inhale enough air with his mouth taped shut, can’t even glare properly with his body sprawled low on the floor and them standing over him, towering.

Ishioka kicks him again somewhere below his ribcages and his lungs spasm painfully when the breath is forced out of him through his nose. Somewhere in his mind, he hopes the brat would kick him harder next time, hard enough to shatter his ribs or cause an internal bleeding so they can finally be given the punishment they deserve _so they can experience fear and pain and suffering for the first time_ and he can finally be free.

“Stop it!!!”

…He knows that voice.

He knows it all too well and he _hates_ it _(him)_.

Mitani steps out of the shadow, and in that moment Mitsuru thinks he hates him more than he despises these trashes. He expects him to stumble, to stammer, to be driven out and to leave him alone, but Mitani drops low and in a blur of movement he tackles the smaller henchman on his middle and sends them both tumbling against a steel girder. The other one yells and throws himself over them, hoping to pin him between them, but Mitani scrambles away in time and he slams down on his friend instead.

“You little—!”

Ishioka leaps forward but Mitani ducks under his punch and slams against his side, knocking him down. He rushes to Mitsuru, scrambles to his other side and grips his taped hands, pulling something out from his own pocket.

“I’m so sorry if—” he pants, and there’s a tearing sound and Mitsuru feels the binding loosen.

Ishioka gets up with a yell and grabs Mitani by his collar, then throws him to the closest girder. Mitani crumples to the floor and Ishioka kicks him when he’s still gasping for breath.

The tape binding Mitsuru’s hands are ripped, though, and he wrenches his hands free with all his strength. Without bothering to take off the one on his mouth, he hurls all of his weight against Ishioka’s unsuspecting side and sends him sprawling flat against both of his henchmen – who didn’t see him coming in their enthusiasm to gang up on Mitani – like pancakes.

Mitani is still curled up on the floor, but Mitsuru yanks him to his feet and they sprint out of the abandoned building, tripping and stumbling along the way.

They don’t stop until they’re far enough, when Mitsuru’s lungs feel like they are about to burst and Mitani starts lagging behind him, both of their panting loud in the silent evening. They all but drop on a bench at the side of the street and don’t say anything for a while as they suck air hungrily.

Mitani is the first to pull himself to his feet, and Mitsuru watches from the corner of his eye as he buys two cans of drink from the nearby vending machine. He hands one to Mitsuru without a word, and Mitsuru accepts it equally mutely.

(It’s apple soda, his favorite. It just adds one more question to an already building pile in his mind).

“Are you okay?” Mitani asks when he’s sat back down. He’s looking at Mitsuru with concern although he looks much worse than him. Ishioka didn’t hold back when he beat Mitsuru up, and he sure didn’t either when he did Mitani. Mitani’s cheek is blue and swollen, and his split lip is speckled with blood.

Mitsuru glances at him and takes it all in, the bruises and the hesitant but genuine concern, and feels something stir in him.

(Something that, if he takes time to assess, isn’t different from what he felt when Aya looked up at him with those bright bright eyes and when she laughed, shrieked, with pure, unadulterated glee, to his tickling).

“I’m fine,” he says. Then, because he still hates Mitani – for showing up, for knowing everything – but at the same time feels that inexplicable, softer something, “Thanks for coming.”

“You’re welcome.” Mitani smiles, small and relieved and lingering. He cracks his drink open, and his expression sobers. “What they did to you is horrible. It’s out of line, even for Ishioka and his gang.”

“What do you expect,” Mitsuru retorts drily and sips his soda, wincing when it burns the cut inside his cheek. “Why were you there anyway?”

Mitani stills.

“What were you doing there?”

Mitani takes a sip. Mitsuru follows his movements from the corner of his eye.

“I wanted to see the ghost,” Mitani says eventually. His voice is steady and lacking his usual stutter, and they all scream that he’s lying. “Katchan and I had a dare, and I…” He takes another sip.

He is a terrible liar, and there’s something vulnerable in his face when he says that, making Mitsuru wants to exploit that, to poke at him until he tells the truth. But Mitani speaks again before he’s able to.

“How about you, Ashikawa?” He turns his face slightly towards him. “What… what were you doing there?”

“They jumped me on my way home and dragged me there.”

“No, I mean before today. What were you doing there— _why_ were you there in the first place?”

Mitsuru looks pointedly ahead. He doesn’t have to answer, but he doubts the one he gives would qualify as an answer anyway, so he wouldn’t lose or give anything away.

“Why do you care?”

Mitani fumbles. “Um—“

Mitsuru turns his head to face him. “Why do you care why I went there?”

“Because…” Mitani’s gaze dips, his thumbs twisting with each other against the can. “Because…”

“You answer that, and I’ll answer you.” Mitsuru is not so much offering as forcing him into the bargain, ruthlessly.

Mitani’s face falls. If Mitsuru were as he was back then, before the bloodbath and Aya’s body a lump under the white sheet, he would feel sorry for him. But right now he wants to know why; why Mitani is so interested in him, why he seems to be able to predict everything, why he cares about him in the first place, why he looked at him with anticipation, with bated breath and rippling eyes, as if he was afraid of what Mitsuru’s answer would be; so he doesn’t feel even the slightest pang of sympathy.

Mitani keeps twisting his thumbs, then turning the can in his hands. Mitsuru keeps his eyes on him, tracking each unnamable emotions flickering on his face.

Hesitation, sorrow, pain. In that moment he looks older than he actually is. He doesn’t look like that kid stammering over his invitation to join him at lunch.

“Because it shouldn’t—“ He swallows. “It’s not supposed to be like this.”

“What’s not supposed to be like what?”

“It’s not supposed to be there,” Mitani’s voice quiets. “And it’s _not there_. So… so… I don’t understand why you still go, to that place.”

Mitsuru should shake him, should demand him to explain instead of giving him such vague words. But he doesn’t, because deep down he knows what Mitani means. He doesn’t know what exactly, but he knows.

There is nothing in the abandoned building, nothing in the shadow of the steel girders, nothing at the top of the stairs. Yet he goes there every night, climbing the same stairs up and down, combing the not-even-half-finished floors, waiting on the steps until the moon fades, and going home each dawn with disappointment echoing in the hollow of his heart _(his memories?)_.

He downs the rest of his soda, biting back a hiss at the burn.

“Why… why did you go there, Ashikawa?”

Mitsuru stands up and flings the empty can into the trash bin.

“…I don’t know.”

* * *

Mitsuru dreams.

He dreams of blood on the walls and on the white sheet, of a tiny, pale hand dangling from the stretcher. He dreams of a birthday cake melting into a lump of bloody flesh on the table and small, red handprints on his pants, with a distorted child’s voice asking for seconds.

He dreams of a crumbling world beneath him; destroyed houses and pillars of smoke, heaps of rocks and funnels of tornadoes. A waterfall of black pouring from the sky.

He dreams of falling as the ground under him morphs into a sea of hands and faces, all grabbing him, clawing on him, screaming at him _why why why_ , their eyes blown wide and their faces split in half or spattered with blood that speaks of severed heads. He scrambles, staggers, tries to call for help, but his voice is gone and then there’s someone shoving him and pinning him down by his throat.

Above him, a blood red star twinkles, as if smiling.

* * *

Mitani doesn’t come to his class the next day, or the next. He doesn’t come for a week.

Mitsuru isn’t waiting, but his absence is felt, that lack of soft shadow that falls over him everyday at lunch or after school, that presence which forces his bowed head to rise and his clammed-up, curt _(resentful)_ words to spill.

He thinks Mitani has given up, has finally opened his eyes to the futility of his attempts, but from not-quite-whispered words in his class and in the hallway, he learns why eventually.

Mitani’s parents are divorced.

(Mitani returns to his routine after a week and a few days, devotedly and patiently making the trips to his classroom and extending to him the same offers, which he still unchangingly refuses.

He isn’t the same, though, and Mitsuru can tell, even though his nervous smile and his hesitant voice and his squirming hands don’t change. His pauses are a second too long, his exhales too brittle for them not to be a sigh. And his eyes, which always stay steady no matter how stony the rejection is, undulate, ripple, speak clearer than his other gestures do.

Mitsuru knows all too well the look of someone who’s just had the world snatched away from him and is left with nothing but a void and useless memories of better days gone past.)

* * *

Sometimes in his dream, he’s in pain.

He can’t move, he can’t breathe, and his chest feels like a knife has been twisted through it, all the way to his spines. He’s lying on his side so he can’t look up, but he can tell that it’s raining. Fat, cold droplets that warm up when they pool on his cheek.

No, not raining.

Someone is crying. Above him. Over him.

For him.

There are fingers running through his hair, brushing sweat-damp strands from his face. Trembling, smooth fingers.

Perhaps it’s his aunt, and despite the pain, despite the strange indifference _(acceptance)_ , his heart clenches.

( _I will return the scales of fortune to their rightful position,_ he’d said, _and the balance would be restored._ )

* * *

His aunt brushes five smooth, cool fingers across cheekbone. Or tries to.

In the end, her hand settles there, in the air, a bare inch from his face, a ghost of a touch.

Then she takes it back and curls her fingers in loosely. They are trembling.

At the bruise or at the thought of touching him, he doesn’t know.

“What happened?” she asks, and although her voice is level, the shuddering of her breath is true. Is genuine.

“I tripped,” he says. “It’s okay.”

She looks like she wants to say something, but she doesn’t. So he walks past her into his room and shuts the door behind him.

After dinner, she goes into the kitchen and comes back with a small bag of cloth in her hand.

She hesitates, then takes his hand and puts the pouch on it. It’s cold.

“Put this on the bruise,” she instructs. She looks like she wants to say something else, but in the end she doesn’t.

Mitsuru watches her turn away to return to her room, stunned, not knowing what to think.

* * *

Sometimes in his dream, his father beats him.

He looks up through the haze of pain and throbbing cheekbones at his father’s red _(it used to be sunburned from years walking under the sun),_ furious _(where are the dimples, the laugh crinkles?),_ betrayed face, and feels fear coursing through his veins, paralyzing him.

His father yells something slurred and kicks him _(not unlike Ishioka did)_ and he cries out and curls into himself, begging _father please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, dad_.

Somewhere in the house, he hears his sister crying, muffled by the walls.

* * *

Mitsuru sees when Ishioka dumps Mitani into the pond.

He sees the other two keeps Komura down, yanking his backpack and tripping him and shoving him down when he tries to get up.

Mitani is sputtering water and the three of them are laughing, laughing, laughing.

It’s after school, and there are fewer teachers, and Ishioka and his gang have been troublemakers for too long _and with no change no remorse brought by repercussions_ that Mitsuru is sure even the teachers can’t be bothered anymore.

Mitsuru returns to class, takes the bucket of murky, dirty water left from moping the floor. He strides down the corridor into the backyard, and Ishioka and his henchmen perk up at his arrival.

Before any of them can do or so much as say anything, he throws the entire content of the bucket to Ishioka’s face.

Ishioka doubles over, sputtering and coughing and retching, and Mitsuru uses the distraction to grabs Mitani’s hand and heaves him out of the pond. The henchmen stare stupefied, too shocked to react immediately.

“Get them!” Ishioka yells, hoarse from all the coughing he does to get the water out.

Snapped out of his shock, the bigger henchman lunges at them. Mitsuru strikes him hard across the face with the empty metal bucket. The kid goes down flying, face-first onto the ground.

The other henchman shrieks and runs for it, leaving Ishioka by himself, dripping and bewildered. He looks seconds from charging at them, but he sees the bucket on Mitsuru’s hand, has watched what he can _and will_ do with it, and hesitates.

Mitsuru looks back at him, calm and unruffled, his knuckles white from gripping the bucket’s handle.

“Ashikawa, come on.” Mitani pulls him towards the corridor, his hand leaving wet patch on Mitsuru’s sleeve. “Don’t— Let’s just go.”

Komura scrambles to his feet and starts tugging him back too. “Yeah, come on, dude.”

Mitsuru yanks his arms free from both of them and walks swiftly back inside.

Ishioka is still staring at him as he leaves, unmoving. He might as well be frozen solid to the spot.

* * *

“Why did you do that?” his aunt asks when they’re home, back from the headmaster’s office filled with indignant mothers and quiet, apprehensive children, from the apologies both meant and not.

“I told you and everyone why in the headmaster’s office,” he replies wearily, clipped. “I wasn’t lying.”

“But you didn’t have to go that far.” His aunt slumps on the dining chair. “What if you broke something? You’re lucky the boy only lost two teeth. And you don’t have to push that other boy into the pond.”

Mitsuru grits his teeth. “I didn’t push him into the pond. I just threw water at him.”

His aunt gives him a stricken look, and it’s clear that she’s doing her best not to sigh. She massages her temple with her slender fingers. “You still should not do that...”

It takes all of his willpower not to slam the door to his room shut.

* * *

He has someone’s blood on his hands, in his dream.

He looks down, and there’s a cold, dead body next to his feet, green-skinned with the face of a lizard. Its unseeing, empty eyes are staring at him.

“You didn’t have to go that far,” it croaks through a bloodied mouth.

* * *

This time, Mitani drags him out when he answers him with yet another No.

He leads him to a quiet, grassy corner in the courtyard, under the shade of a tree, his hold on Mitsuru’s hand firm but gentle, if Mitsuru wants to tug himself free he could.

_(There’s a ghost memory there, of Mitani’s hand against his, rough instead of eggshell-smooth, speckled with raised skin the remnants of blisters)._

Komura is already there, and he grins when he sees him, unsure at the edges but earnest enough. “Yo, Ashikawa!”

Mitani sits down next to his friend, and when their staring makes it apparent that there’s no backing out from this, Mitsuru reluctantly takes a seat next to him.

“You were awesome yesterday!” Komura tells him a moment later, when boxed lunches have been opened and he’s stuffed his mouth full of sausages, eyes blazing. “No one dared to go up against Ishioka and his gang because they’re big and nasty, but you just—“ he mimes the movement of throwing water and swinging a bucket, “—do that! That’s. So. Cool!”

Mitsuru pushes the straw into his boxed apple juice. “You shouldn’t be scared of them. They’re just sixth-graders, not adults.”

Komura scrunches his face. “But they don’t hold back when they beat you up. And no use in reporting to teachers because they’d just make them apologize, and they don’t even mean it when they say it.”

“All the more reason not to cower from them.”

“I wish we could...” Komura laments.

Mitsuru doesn’t feel like repeating himself. _They’re just sixth-graders._ He drinks his juice in silence, and proceeds to rip open the bread’s wrapper.

Mitani turns in his seat to face him more fully. “Ashikawa, I… I didn’t get the chance to thank you yesterday, and— Thank you for helping me out.”

Mitsuru bites into his bread and takes his time munching on it. “I was just repaying my debt,” he says after swallowing. “And you’re more than capable of finishing them off by yourself. No need to—“ _fake it_ “—be humble.”

Mitani’s mouth opens slightly in an ‘o’. As apprehension dawns on him, his eyes widen, and for a moment Mitsuru thinks his gaze turns aggrieved, before he shakes his head wildly, abashedly.

“T- Thanks, Ashikawa, but I’m not– I’m not that great.”

Mitsuru narrows his eyes at him, but Mitani ducks his head and returns to focusing on his lunch.

Komura looks back and forth between them, looking as lost as a freshwater fish dumped into the ocean. “Oookaayy… Any of you gonna explain or what?”

* * *

If not his father beating him, sometimes it’s his mother in the kitchen, bowing at the counter, framed by the dull, somber light from the window.

She’s chopping the vegetables, like he always found her to when he came home from school, but the slant of her shoulders are different, tired; and her head hangs as if in penitence. She turns around to smile at him but he can’t smile back, because she looks so old, so unlike her in his memory, her hair falling out haphazardly from her ponytail and shadows settling on the space under her eyes.

He looks at her hands and finds that they’re not cutting vegetables, or any thing. She’s just holding the knife flat against the chopping board, as if waiting for food to suddenly materialize there.

Sorry I haven’t cooked, she says, half-hearted and lifeless, there’s nothing in the fridge and I forgot to ask your father to do groceries. Can you do it for me?

He wants to answer but as always in his dreams, his tongue is locked, decaying into a lump of useless meat in his mouth.

Before he’s able to nod, to show with another way that yes, he can do it, he doesn’t mind, his mother crumples, folds into herself, her hands digging into her scalp and her hair spilling like curtain around her face.

Why why why, she murmurs, I apologized, I promised, I begged, he didn’t need to do this, he shouldn’t do this, _why_ would he do this, why does no one say anything, why why why.

She turns her head towards him and his heart ricochets into his throat at the sight of her too-wide, bloodshot, _hateful_ eyes.

When she speaks, it’s his mother’s voice and it’s not, both at the same time, raspy and crinkly and creaky.

“This is all because of you.”

* * *

“Ashikawa, no offense but, you look like you need a nap.”

Mitsuru does. He needs sleep. He _wants_ sleep. But he is apprehensive of it _(fears it)_ at the same time. “I’m fine.”

Komura pats his bed, a creaky thing that’s weighed down by a mess of blanket, shirts, pants, comic books, and, Mitsuru is quite sure, cheap plastic figurines, somewhere in the bundle. “You can sleep here, if you want. I’d wake you up when it’s your time to go home.”

“I’m fine,” he repeats, sitting on the threadbare mat on the floor and flanked by the house owner and Mitani.

“Uh, if you say so.” Komura swivels back to face the TV. “The offer stays open, if you want to take a doze later.”

A week into this newfound, strange thing he isn’t willing to call friendship yet, and he’s learned about Komura more than he has Mitani.

Komura is more easygoing in his approach, more loose, and he’s less likely to stumble when given aloof responses, unlike his friend. He might be naïve, but he isn’t as stupid as Mitsuru thought he is, and can be perceptive at times. Like Mitani, though, he’s sincere. And honest. And can be unyielding. All of which give Mitsuru more headaches than joy.

Speaking of, Mitani is giving him a worried look. A worried look that’s not so much worry as it is unease.

Guilt.

He has not told Mitsuru anything worthwhile yet. Mitsuru doesn’t forget, but he wonders why he’s not pestering him more about it. It’s so unlike him.

_(He doesn’t want to consider that he might be trying to postpone knowing the truth)._

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly when Komura goes to start the video game.

Mitsuru nods without looking at him.

“Here you go!” Komura scrambles back to his spot and hands him a controller. “I’ve played up until chapter 2, so you guys give it a go.” He reaches underneath the bed and brandishes a plastic bag spilling with snacks. “I’m just gonna watch. Don’t make me fall asleep, guys.”

The game is like any other fantasy RPG out there; a hero, a quest, magical beings. The only difference is it allows two-player mode, where one becomes the lead and the other his first party member, his second-in-command.

Mitsuru lets Mitani be the lead because he can’t care less; he’s not interested in video games but Komura had insisted and he was more unrelenting (and annoying) than Mitani would ever be.

The hero gets a sword from a wandering blacksmith who turns out to be a wizard in disguise looking for The Chosen One. He embarks on a journey to defeat the demon lord. The second player can choose the sidekick’s job.

Mitsuru chooses Sorcerer.

They fight monsters. They meet other towns’ residents. They help magical creatures and in turn, gain their cooperation as party members. Just a generic, mainstream fantasy story.

Just like any other video game.

(“Why are you so good at this?” Komura asks somewhere in the middle of the third quest, awed and scandalized, the second bag of jumbo chips lying open on his lap. “Both of you kick asses!” He leans across Mitsuru to prod Mitani’s arm. “Wataru, teach me the combo moves!”

The said boy just gives him a helpless smile.

“And Ashikawa, don’t mean to say that magic types are weak, but I haven’t seen a sorcerer as… brutal as yours!”

Mitsuru knows he means it as a compliment, but something in him sours at the word.)

* * *

When his father isn’t beating him, or his mother isn’t wilting away in the gray kitchen, or when he isn’t being clawed, dragged down, and choked by pale dead hands, he’s floating.

No, not floating – the skyscrapers are speeding too fast around him, the wind too harsh.

Flying?

No, not flying, because he can’t move and he has no control even though his mind is screaming, shouting what might be orders.

He’s _not_ floating and he’s _not_ flying, he’s—

* * *

He used to think that he only needed to step forward.

Just one step, and—

Someone grabs his arm.

Mitsuru whips around abruptly, scowls at Mitani’s flustered, apologetic face, as the train sweeps into the platform and sizzles to a stop.

Sorry, he says, I tripped.

Don’t lie, Mitsuru says, close to a snap, sharp and accusatory and frustrated and puzzled.

Mitani doesn’t try to cover or deny it. He looks like a deer caught in headlights, and he ducks his head, looks away. Sorry, he says again.

“How do you know?” Mitsuru asks, is dying to know. “How— Why do you know everything?”

The train doors exhale and open, and people spill out like a swarm of ants.

_A waterfall of black pouring from the sky, all claws and fangs and empty eye sockets, the face of a skull._

Mitani says nothing as they let the exiting passengers pass, his lower lip gnawed and his eyes ripple, swirl.

“It’s not—” They step into the train. “It’s not that I know everything. Just—”

They find a seat, then sit down. Mitani’s hands curl into fists on his lap, around the fabric of his pants.

The car starts to fill in. The intercom calls a warning to stay clear of the doors.

“It’s just that…”

The doors close with a resigned sigh, and the train shudders to life.

“It’s happened before.” Mitsuru almost misses it among the noise of the engine, said so quietly as if he wants it not to be heard.

“It’s happened before, so I know.”

-

Mitani’s father can’t be more unlike his son than he already is.

Bespectacled, serious, and firm, he looks more like a teacher than a father, and he speaks like one, too. He’s awkward and weary but trying, and Mitani is quiet and equally weary-but-trying, which makes Mitsuru wonder why they even bother to try at all. It’s clear that neither of them really wants to be here.

Mr. Mitani doesn’t talk much. He merely lingers close to them as they stroll around the zoo and look at the animals. The only other time they hear his voice aside of the preceding greetings and introduction is when he asks them if they want a drink.

“Sorry to make you come here,” Mitani says when his father leaves for the restroom, wringing his hands and looking resigned – not miserable, but resigned, as if he didn’t have any prior hopes about this trip. “I would’ve asked Katchan, but he’s going fishing with his dad today.”

“I don’t have anything planned for today,” Mitsuru replies, glancing at him from the plaque he’s reading. “It’s no problem.”

(He doesn’t know why he agreed to this, to accompanying Mitani on his bonding trip with his father which was supposed to be father-son only. He wouldn’t have cared, back then, _(why? because he didn’t have time to care about others, he should just be focused on one thing and that’s—)_ but when Mitani asked him, eyes averted and blunt nails fidgeting on his other hand until the skin was red and peeling, Mitsuru found that he couldn’t say no).

Mitani looks surprised, just like he did when Mitsuru agreed, then his face relaxes into a small smile.

“According to this, flamingo feathers are pink because of the pigments in the organisms they eat.” Mitsuru remarks, effectively stopping him before he can say something like ‘thank you’.

“Really?” Sometimes Mitani seems older than he is, weighed, burdened, but right now the glitter in his eyes are real. “What do they eat, then?”

(He couldn’t say no. Maybe that’s because somehow, in the homework-and-video-games sessions at Komura’s and lunches under the tree, in Mitani’s insistence on giving him half of his bento every day and his soft, thankful _See you tomorrow,_ Mitsuru has found it in himself to make exceptions for him)

* * *

“You really think that’s enough, sonny?”

The old man turns around from the helm to face him, eyes bulging out and lips blanched and his entire body blue and bloating. He looks like an emaciated frog, except for his hoarse, too-thin voice. The rickety ship sways with the tides, creaking and rasping and crumbling, pieces of rotten wood raining down into the sea.

“Do good and you’d be forgiven of all your sins?” The old man spits to the floor near Mitsuru’s leg. “Don’t work that way. Don’t work that way at all.”

The wind picks up into a gale, into a tornado, into a storm. The ship tilts to one side and Mitsuru stumbles to keep his balance. The deck is disintegrating, the sails are falling as old, ripped clothes, the masts are dropping like a felled tree into the sea. Only the spot where they’re standing is left, a piece of solid land in the middle of raging water.

“Won’t be no way you’d be forgiven.” The old man turns back to the helm, but his blown eye rotates in its socket to gaze at Mitsuru, a frog’s eye, boring into his without the need to turn his head. “After all you did, nothing won’t ever be enough.”

He spins the wheel to the right and the entire remnants upends itself into water, flinging them both into cold, angry darkness.

Even among the howling wind and the water rushing up to smother him, Mitsuru can hear him whistling, a tune too merry and too happy.

* * *

He doesn’t understand the point of this, but he guesses it’s very like Mitani: too nice for his own good _down to the very end_. And it’s not that he minds either; the weather is good, blue sky and pale sun shimmering on the still pond, trees rustling in the breeze and birds twittering somewhere above. It’s peaceful, and welcoming.

His aunt is overjoyed that he’d begun to make friends and go out, but just as his waking life improves, his slumber time is riddled with too much – resentful voices and cold, dead hands, hateful words and red furious face and accusatory eyes, and

_falling, down down down,_

_he keeps on falling_

_when will it end does he want it to end if it ends wouldn’t it mean—_

so this bright morning and soft park are a much-desired repose.

The wheelchair creaks when Mitani turns it to face the pond. He bends to set the brake, then straightens, stretches his arms above him, and lets them swing back down with a content huff. The pond glitters with sunlight, reflected in the mute girl’s blank eyes. Ducks quack in the distance.

Both of the other Daimatsu settle down at a spot not far from theirs. The older man peers briefly at them with a smile as his son bends backward with his hands on his hips, letting out a strained grunt.

Mitani smiles back at them before dropping to a seat on the grass next to the girl. The quiet that follows is comfortable, at ease.

“They’re tearing the building down,” he says after a moment, soft and a bit sad. He turns his head slightly towards him, flickering a glance to the girl, speaking to them both.

Mitsuru hums. Kaori Daimatsu gives no response.

“The metals are rusted. It’s only reasonable they tear it down to rebuild it,” he says, practical.

Even though in his chest, something aches, something yearns, something mourns.

Something is disbelieving and indignant and refuses to let go.

“I guess so…” Mitani sounds bereft, but his eyes are steady, accepting, on his sad face.

The wind ruffles the grass, fluttering the hem of Kaori Daimatsu’s summer dress and stirring her long black hair. It wrenches her sun hat from her head and takes it dancing across the air, raising it high enough to touch the top of the trees before dropping it to slap the back of a child’s head.

Mitani gets up with a yelp and takes off after it. His hands are extended, fingers almost brushing the rim of the hat as it descends.

_Not that easy,_ Mitsuru thinks, teasing and smug and just a bit imperious.

And much to his surprise, the wind tugs the hat out of Mitani’s reach, twirling it and sending it careening across a cherry tree.

Mr. Daimatsu laughs good-naturedly, with amusement, and Noriyuki pushes himself to his feet to join Mitani in his chase with the same laughter.

It’s so light and peaceful, that Mitsuru almost, almost smiles.

And because of that, he doesn’t think much of what he’s doing. He bends down, releases the brake of the wheelchair, and spins it around so the girl sitting on it has a view of her brother and her friend (admirer, more likely) tripping over their own feet trying to catch her hat.

He’s surprised at himself even as he’s doing it, and when he glances to the side he catches the sight of Mr. Daimatsu’s face stretching into a similar pleasant surprise. He releases his grip on the chair’s handles, suddenly awkward and self-conscious, but the old man returns to watching the hat chasers without saying anything, bless him.

Noriyuki leaps and catches the hat, whooping. Mitani, unsurprisingly, trips and falls flat on his face. Mitsuru snorts.

Then—he might be imagining it, but—Kaori Daimatsu lets out a very quiet, imperceptible small huff. Like a chuckle.

He turns to look at her and sees her eyes flicker, fleetingly, before she blinks and it’s gone.

* * *

What comes after the endless falling, is silence.

No, not silence.

Stillness.

All around him crickets are screaming, monotonous and emotionless, like a thousand strings being plucked but producing no song, just noise. The sun is burning the back of his neck, a layer of painful heat on his head. He smells iron and grass, cement and car’s exhaust. Dust stings his eyes, but he can’t close them. Nothing of him listens, not his limbs not his eyes not his mouth. Electricity crackles inside his head, pounding against his skull until it splits open.

Someone is panting next to him, heaving big, aborted breath, teetering at the edge of hysteria.

“Mitsuru…”

The crickets’ scream rises into a crescendo.

He thinks he hears someone crying.

* * *

Mitsuru jerks awake in someone else’s room.

For a moment all he does is blink at the wall and try to rein his breath, his heart thundering far too loud and too fast in his ribcages and the dream still fresh in his mind, still vivid down to the roughness of gravel against his cheek.

There’s a sound of chair scraping against the floor and Mitani appears at the edge of his vision, face marred with worry and mouth half open in a useless question.

_Are you okay?_ No, he’s not, Mitani can see for himself.

But Mitani says instead, “Nightmare?”

Mitsuru exhales, running a hand across his forehead, down to his eyes. “Yes.” _Always_.

Mitani falls quiet, hovering as Mitsuru counts his breath. The events of the day rearrange themselves in his head; a girl from his class invited the whole class to her birthday party, he faked a sickness and told Komura to go in his stead, then when he was lying down reading in his pretend illness, Mitani called him to ask if he wanted to come and help him with English homework.

(It’s a bluff, yet another lie. Mitani is good at every subject, but he feigns stupidity and pretends as if he’s as clueless as the other kids. The most aggravating thing is he’s so good at it that Komura buys it. Hell, the other kids and even the teachers buy it.

It doesn’t matter if Mitsuru sees through it and has called him out a few times, Mitani doesn’t budge.)

“That’s nice of you,” Mitani had said when he learned that Mitsuru gave his invitation to Komura. He’d smiled at him. “Sachiko-chan likes Katchan. I’ll bet him coming in your place would be a big surprise to her. Did you do it because of that?”

_Yes, because that girl is tolerable compared to the others in my class, she’s actually polite and not giggling and gushing and crowding me like the others, a bunch of monkeys they are. And because—_ Mitsuru had shrugged. “I don’t like party all that much, that’s all.”

Mitani’s expression had turned somber at that. Mitsuru had thought, then, _he knows_.

_That tiny detail which is not covered in any news. He knows._

Mitsuru sighs, rubbing his cheekbone where the phantom throbbing still lingers. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“It’s okay,” Mitani hurriedly says. “The homework’s all done, so you can continue sleeping, if– if you want to.”

Mitsuru shakes his head. The crickets’ shrill chirping is still echoing in his ears.

Mitani leaves the room and returns a moment later with a glass of water. He sits down next to Mitsuru at the floor.

“You know, don’t you?” Mitsuru says when the glass is empty.

Mitani blinks questioningly at him.

“You know that I’m having nightmares. You know what they are. You know why I don’t go to parties. To _birthday parties_. And you most certainly know why I went to that abandoned building.”

Mitani freezes. Mitsuru turns toward him.

“You promised you’ll tell me everything, so isn’t it about time you do?”

_(Isn’t it about time he knows?)_

“I…” Mitani wrings his hands. He doesn’t look at Mitsuru, just staring intently at the boring tiled floor as if it holds their fate in its hands. “I— Yeah.”

Mitsuru waits.

Mitani closes his eyes, as if gathering strength, gathering courage. When he opens them again, they’re rippling, but also set, resolved. _(Afraid and apprehensive but still going forward)_. He shifts to face Mitsuru.

“This might be hard to believe…”

-

“You really are too nice for your own good,” Mitsuru exhales, weak and brittle and shaking. “Down to the very end.”

“Don’t say ‘the end’!” Wataru is crying, is weeping, his entire body trembling and tears spilling from rippling pools in his eyes. “We’ll go home together! We’ll return home, go to school, play soccer and games, go to middle school—“ He chokes and his voice, his words, splinter and diminish, leaving him strangled with tears.

Mitsuru thinks he cried like that too in the funeral, when he saw his sister’s tiny coffin being lowered into the hole. He was sure that his heart was broken beyond repair, and he wept and wrung himself dry.

“I’ve lost. I will die here,” he says, and it’s strange how just mere minutes ago he was fighting so hard and now he’s accepted it.

“No no, don’t say that, don’t say that!” Wataru shakes his head so hard his entire body quakes. “I will definitely bring you back! Whatever I have to do, I’ll bring you back!”

_No,_ Mitsuru thinks, _you shouldn’t. You should never._

Because he’s done many things unforgivable and willingly destroyed the entire continent, the entire world _his world, himself_ beyond repair, staining his hands with other people’s blood, and no punishment would ever suffice except death. Death so that this world can be saved.

His sister stands waiting, smiling that bright bright smile and looking up at him with those round, starlit eyes, and no, this is not something to be grieved upon. This is everything he used to only be able to dream of.

_“Welcome back, onii-chan!”_

_I’m home._

* * *

Mitani, no, _Wataru_ speaks of another world, of a world shaped by this world’s hopes and dreams and resentment and grief. He talks about a journey, about wishes, about a goddess.

He talks about sacrifices and the end of the world.

He tells him about his wish.

The first wish was to rewind everything, back to when their journey first started.

The second wish was the same, because he’d failed _again_.

(Mitsuru hadn’t listened, had still refused to, had still ended up in the same place, had still _died_ , even when Wataru tried to stay with him, talk to him, make him understand).

The third and fourth wish was to bring him back _before_ Mitsuru’s birthday, long, long before; before his mother’s betrayal.

(Wataru had sought him out. He’d tried to do something. None, _none_ of what he did resulted in anything good).

The fifth, the final wish,

was for the Porta Nectere to never appear.

_“I will definitely bring you back! Whatever I should do, I’ll bring you back!”_

Wataru apologizes as if he’s sinned gravely against Mitsuru, as if he’s the one discarding a world for the sake of his wish.

“I messed up every time,” he says, guilty and shameful and grieving. “I’m sorry, Mitsuru. I’m- I’m so sorry.”

His father’s drunken beating. His mother wasting away. Him falling endlessly. The crickets’ piercing cries.

“I know I shouldn’t. I know you don’t want me to. I know that you– I thought you might want to- to die so you can be with your sister again. But—“ His head, already bowed, dips even lower. “I don’t– I won’t make excuses. I’m so sorry, Mitsuru.”

_“Welcome back, onii-chan!”_

The blood splattering on the window. His sister’s tiny, pale hand dangling from the stretcher. The sound of shovel. His sister’s name on the gravestone. His aunt’s weary face.

His own death, cold and racked with pain, smoldered and wet with his own blood.

_“Where did I go wrong?”_

He closes his eyes and thinks of the dismantled building, of the non-existent gate. Of the path closed forever.

In his chest, a storm rages, all thunder and gale and swirling sand and crashing waves, whipping wind and crackling heat, tossing emotions and whirlpool of feelings.

He breathes.

Once, twice, three times.

“Wataru.”

Wataru raises his head tentatively, contrite and stricken.

Mitsuru curls his fingers in and imagines punching him.

He doesn’t.

He just—

breathes.

Inhale, exhale, again.

Once, twice, three times, four.

Wataru waits, like a convict accepting his oncoming death verdict.

_“Why are you crying? You’ve won.”_

_“You’re too nice for your own good.”_

The darkness behind his eyelids is unlike the one he unleashed on Vision. It’s undemanding and unthreatening, folding and unfolding like silk.

_“What do I care what’ll happen with Vision?”_

_“What if I told you that I came here only for the gemstone?”_

_“Then I would’ve faced you. And I would’ve won. We both know that.”_

“…Mitsuru?”

_“Do you repent your sins as a child of man, the conflict, the anger, the empty struggle, the foolish ignorance?”_

_“Yes.”_

The smooth, cool hand brushing his fringe from his forehead. The fat droplets of tears. The sound of his name in a heartbreak.

“Okay.”

“…What?”

“Okay,” Mitsuru repeats, because he doesn’t know what to say, what to feel. The wish has been granted. The deed is done. This timeline, this life, strolls on.

“What—“

“I’m angry at you.” He can’t help but saying it, because he’s never been anything but honest, blunt. “Five times. You refused to let me go five times, even though I wanted to. And my family still died even after five times.” The words, the truth, taste bitter on his tongue. _Five times and Aya still died._

Wataru flinches, his shoulders hunched, his head dipping.

Mitsuru takes a long, whispery breath.

Five times. Five lifetimes, three journeys through Vision, and he still lost every time. Still made the same mistakes every single time. Still— _Never_ learned. He’s furious at Wataru, but he’s also furious at himself.

And now the only way to change his destiny is gone.

“I’m sorry,” Wataru whispers, as if he knows what is on Mitsuru’s mind. “I—“

“I know you’re sorry,” Mitsuru cuts him off. “But it’s not going to change anything.”

Wataru’s fingers dig even deeper into his palms. He swallows. “So…”

“So nothing.” Mitsuru breathes out, suddenly weary. Weary of being angry and bitter and haunted by the sins of his pasts. He feels just like he did on that crystal lake, resigned and oddly accepting. Maybe it’s because, somehow, he’s already known before Wataru told him, already known that he’s fought for five long lifetimes and still comes out defeated. Those defeats might have already scraped his hate and fury dull, shatter into pieces what’s left of his hope. “Nothing more can be done. We go on with this lifetime.”

Besides,

Wataru, too, has relived his life five times just to save _him_. He has willingly gone through the entire journey in Vision and witnessed the end again and again, has willingly and silently endured his own problems _(his divorced parents, his brisk and awkward father and his mentally unstable mother and his father’s petty lover)_ multiple times over, all for Mitsuru’s sake.

He’d never imagined someone would go to that length for him: a bitter and hateful child, someone who is beyond redemption and who has refused the chance.

No one would be willing to do that.

No one.

Except Wataru.

And that knowledge tugs on Mitsuru’s chest, hard enough to ache. It’s how he always feels whenever he remembers about Aya and her wide, sunbeam smile, and remembers her tiny dead hand and tiny coffin. He closes his eyes and swallows the rough lump in his throat.

After a moment, one taut with silence, he opens his eyes and shifts to face the other boy.

“Wataru.”

It comes out more gently than he’s ever been. Wataru lifts his head, just a fraction, barely enough for Mitsuru to see his eyes.

“I’m angry with you,” he says, “but I don’t hate you. For what you did. For…” He meets his eyes. “I don’t hate you for being you.”

_Too nice for your own good, down to the very end._

“And… thank you.”

_For not giving up on me. For everything._

Wataru’s eyes stir. His lips wobble. Then, without any warning, he leaps forward and envelops Mitsuru in a fierce hug, knocking him down and sending both of them sprawling on the floor, his arms around Mitsuru’s neck and his sobs breaking against his hair.

Mitsuru stares wide-eyed at the ceiling, stunned and disconcerted; then, as he feels Wataru’s shudder against him and hears the broken cry so close to his ears, something in him wrenches loose and the tears spill unhindered from his eyes. He only half registers when he puts his hand on Wataru’s back, a gesture of comfort and an anchor both, and sobs.

Wataru cries noisily and quietly, both at the same time, but Mitsuru does soundlessly. They both weep for everything that has happened and everything that has been lost, for wounds closed only to be pried open again, and perhaps, for something in them they know have been lost forever.

-

“If you used your wish for me, what about your own wish?”

The question hangs heavy in the quiet that follows. Mitsuru glances at Wataru stretching out next to him, staring at the water stain on the ceiling with eyes that still shimmer with residual tears.

“It’s been granted already,” Wataru says, and his voice is sure and steady, but also filled with wistfulness that Mitsuru knows that somehow he’s still not telling the whole truth.

“Don’t lie,” he says, and a small smile comes into Wataru’s face as he glances back at him.

“I’m not.” He turns his gaze back to the ceiling. “I wished… I wished to change my destiny, but along my journey I learned that it’s not my destiny that should change, it’s me.”

Mitsuru waits, watches as the wistfulness shifts into a soft, silent gladness.

“I wanted to save Vision,” Wataru says, “but I also wanted to save _you_. So you see, I didn’t use my wish only for you. I used it for myself too.”

Mitsuru understands that. He had wished to save his family, his sister, but it wasn’t for their sake; it was for his. There’s always another side to a seemingly-selfless wish. He guesses it applies even to Wataru.

“How about Vision?” he asks. “Was it…” _Saved? Safe from him?_

“It was saved.” Wataru smiles at him, certain and reassuring. “It was safe.”

Mitsuru doesn’t ask him about the sacrificed Traveler, or about the Mirror of Eternal Shadow. He’s more than okay not knowing, and Wataru seems perfectly content in not talking about it, _in not having to remember all over again._

They lay there on the floor silently, wordlessly, and Mitsuru thinks about the days that will come and how he would, _should_ live this life, the phantom pain from lost lifetimes throbbing in the hollow of his heart, and still has no answer by the end of the day.

* * *

“Mitsuru.”

Mitsuru raises his face from his bag, eyes trailing the soccer ball up to the blue shirt and higher up to the pair of bright eyes. “I thought the game is at 4.30.”

“Yes, but…“ Wataru pauses, fumbling for words but not with his hands like he used to. “Do you think you can teach me how to do that feint you did in last week’s game?”

Mitsuru pretends to contemplate about it. “I don’t know. It was difficult to learn, I’m not sure I want to share it freely with just anyone.”

Wataru gapes at him for a second. Then he snorts and hits him lightly on the arm. “Jerk.”

“Is this how you should treat your superior?” Mitsuru flips the flap of his bag shut, not bothering to hide his smirk. “Even more, one whom you asked to teach you?”

Wataru’s grimace is all pretend, he knows. “Okay, okay. One can of apple soda. How about it?”

“The old lady’s shaved ice.” Mitsuru stands up and shoulders his bag. “We have a deal.”

“You’re milking me dry,” Wataru mumbles as he follows him out of the classroom.

“You make it too easy,” Mitsuru retorts.

Wataru pouts. They step out into the courtyard bathed with afternoon sun, mingling with the other children chattering loudly as they amble to the gate. These are the last days of this spring-soft sunlight, Mitsuru absently thinks, tracing the top of the trees standing vivid against the blue sky.

“What’ll you do for summer break?” Wataru asks when they’re out in the street, bouncing the ball lightly on his hands.

“Nothing special.” Mitsuru shrugs. “Reading. And my aunt seems to be planning to take me to the beach.”

“That’s great!” Wataru smiles wide, his eyes soft. “Sea is good.”

“What about you?”

“Me and my mom are going to Grandma’s place,” Wataru says. Despite the excitement his words imply, his tone doesn’t quite rise to its fervor, shying away from it by a hair’s breadth.

“How is she?”

“She’s fine.” Wataru pauses. “She’s getting better, I think. She’s been seeing a therapist.”

Mitsuru hums. “Your father’s… lover, she doesn’t come again, does she?”

“No.” The relief in Wataru’s voice is apparent. Mitsuru doesn’t blame him. “It seems… I think Dad talked to her, told her not to. He… he called when Mom was in the hospital, asking about how she was doing.” He looks down at the ball in his hands. “He apologized, too. Said I shouldn’t have to… to go through that.”

_I shouldn’t have to go through_ that _, too,_ his mind whispers, embittered and discontent. The lifetimes-old resentment is still there, nesting in a corner of his heart untouched by light, rearing its head in every given chance, despite him now knowing about what Wataru did and trying to accept everything what his kindness resulted. Mitsuru has resolved to do his best to let it go, but it’s not an easy feat. Not when he knows everything, not when his nightmares persist in their reminding of his past sins and the grim lifetimes he’d been forced to live.

“Doesn’t it—“ _get easier, when you’ve relived it four times?_ “Is it different, before?”

Wataru’s expression is wry. It looks ill-fitted to his childishly round face and chubby cheeks and big, bright eyes. “Not really. Not by much. Mom threw things at her once instead of pushing her down, but that’s it. Dad’s apology stays the same.”

_“It’s not my destiny that should change, it’s me.”_

“Do you ever regret it?” Because Mitsuru isn’t sure if Wataru has really accepted that. Five lifetimes and just like Mitsuru, he can’t change anything. Mitsuru wouldn’t resent him for wishing that he had used his wish for himself.

Wataru turns to look at him, his eyes widening slightly, searching. His expression eases when he sees Mitsuru’s calm face.

“No, I don’t think I do.” He looks back to the street ahead. “I’d thought to… to change my wish a few times, but I never ended up doing it.” They turn around a bend, and the park bobs into view. “And because I… I guess I’ve grown to accept it, over time,” he lets out a shaky chuckle, “and… things get better, for us, always, even though it takes time. But…” He bites his lip. “But I couldn’t accept your death, ever, even– even after four times.”

Mitsuru looks up to the cloud-streaked sky and sighs. “You’re too nice for your own good.”

Wataru’s smile is small, but solid. “Yeah, you always said that.”

They drop their backpack on a bench and make their way to the small clearing next to the playground, too small to be a proper soccer field but enough to use for a feint practice. The park is empty, save for an elderly man feeding pigeons under a tree.

“So…” Wataru peers at him hesitantly.

_“So nothing.”_

Mitsuru takes the ball from him and bounces it once, twice on his knee before letting it land, puffing dust into the air.

_“Nothing more can be done.”_

“I’ll show you once, first,” he says. “Watch carefully.”

Wataru nods. His serious expression makes Mitsuru want to laugh.

_“We go on with this lifetime.”_

He kicks the ball into motion, and runs forward.

-

> _If there's lasting sadness and torn seams within you_
> 
> _With how happy I am I can laugh and say "that's all fine"_

**Author's Note:**

> I ended up using a lot more materials from the book than I'd intended, so here are some explanations for those who don't read the book:  
> \- Mitsuru is a lot more horrible as a person in the book. He killed and manipulated people in Vision without remorse (the old man on the ship and the waterkin, and possibly more), and not only did he shatter the Mirror of Eternal Shadow to get the last gemstone, he destroyed the city where it was guarded. To be honest, I was left torn between accepting his death as his due punishment and thinking it unfair.  
> \- Mitsuru lives with his aunt in the book. She's still young, she doesn't know how to raise a child, and that leads to their strained relationship, despite her genuinely caring about him.  
> \- Princess Zophie has Mitsuru's aunt's appearance in the book. Mitsuru thought his aunt suffered in real world because Princess Zophie was happy in Vision. That's why he said those things about the scales of fortune.  
> \- In the book, the reason Wataru's father left them is more... complicated to tell. Wataru's mother had tricked him into marrying her by faking a pregnancy and later, miscarriage, despite him having a lover. He left them to finally be with his lover, who by the time of the story is also pregnant with his child. The woman provokes Wataru's mother to shove her. Later, Wataru's mother tries to commit a murder-suicide by turning the gas stove on at night, but Mitsuru comes and saves Wataru. (It's much more grim than the movie, yes...)  
> \- Komura Katsumi is Wataru's best friend. Ishioka Kenji and his gang appear in the movie, so I don't think there's any explanation needed.  
> \- Kaori Daimatsu only appears in the book. Her family owns the abandoned building. She's mute, expressionless, and sits on a wheelchair. It's implied that she's been kidnapped and raped, and that's what causes her condition. In the book, Wataru frees her soul from Vision, healing her in the real world.  
> \- The scenes of Mitsuru's death are from both the movie and the book.  
> \- The blood red star in the first nightmare is the Blood Star. It marks the period in Vision - once every 1000 years - where sacrifices must be made to keep the balance: 1 from Vision and 1 from real world (Traveler). Mitsuru ends up becoming the sacrifice in the book.  
> \- Mitsuru's suicide attempt is only alluded to in the book.  
> \- No, the dead waterkin in Mitsuru's nightmare is not Kee Keema.
> 
> The title and quoted words are from Kenshi Yonezu's **Eine Kleine.**
> 
>   
> If you've reached this point, thank you and congratulations for reading this monster of a note. I doubt you'd read it, but the book is great. The movie, while not as great, is the one to introduce me to the book, and it has some scenes I prefer in comparison to, like the drinking-together-after-got-beaten-up scene; and Mitsuru's death is sadder in the movie, in my opinion.  
>    
> Thank you so much for reading!  
> 


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